


The Princess and the Heir

by MageOfCole



Series: The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Arranged Marriage, Baby dragons - Freeform, Dragons, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Friendship, Female Harry Potter, Gedwëy ignasia, Ghosts, Harry Potter is Death, Harry Potter is Helaine Baratheon, House Stark, Inheritance Cycle ideas used, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Lies, Magic, Master of Death Harry Potter, R Plus L Equals J, Reborn Harry Potter, Reincarnated Harry Potter, Reincarnation, Smitten, Stark family feels, The Return of Magic, Winterfell, Young Love, betrothal, greensight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-12-27 06:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21113852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MageOfCole/pseuds/MageOfCole
Summary: Helaine Baratheon arrives in Winterfell





	1. ROBB I, HELAINE I, CATELYN I

_ **The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe** _

_ **The Princess and the Heir** _

ROBB I

Robb Stark’s first sight of his betrothed was of Princess Helaine Baratheon riding into Winterfell astride a golden palomino destrier, clad in a black riding dress lined with white rabbit fur, a riot of curls falling around a lovely face flushed pink from the cold, laughing and joyful as she led her procession into the courtyard. Lined up amongst his siblings, with Theon and Jon lurking amongst the household members, Robb was struck speechless for a moment, watching the lively young girl slide off her mount, booted feet landing lightly on the cobblestone.

The rumours hadn’t done her justice. She was young, the softness of youth still lining her high cheekbones, but there was something about her presence, the way she held herself, that made her seem older, despite the lankiness of her young body; her skin is tanned golden from a life in the sun, full lips and large eyes greener than anything he had laid his eyes on before. Long black hair fastened into a secure riding braid with Baratheon-yellow ribbons, but the wind had freed some uncontrollable coils to frame her glowing face.

“Lord Stark.” The Princess greeted pleasantly, dipping into a graceful curtsy.

“Princess Helaine,” His father rumbled, dipping at the waist to kiss her glove-clad knuckles. “Welcome to Winterfell. And may I introduce my wife, the Lady Catelyn Stark.”

“Lady Stark, my Lord Father’s words of your beauty do not do you justice.” At those words, his mother’s polite, if strained, smile softened as she returned the greeting.

“This is my son and Heir, Robb.”

Fathomless emerald eyes turned to him, meeting his own Tully-blue gaze, and she smiled. “A pleasure, Lord Robb.”

“The pleasure is mine, Princess Helaine.” Echoing his father’s actions, Robb took the Princess’ hand in his own, sweeping to brush it with a kiss. “Welcome to the North.”

“It truly has a charm of its own.” Princess Helaine said, voice clear and smooth, huskier than Robb is used to, but lovely nonetheless.

_Musical_.

Robb stepped back, cheeks warm as the Princess’ attention was pulled back to his father as he introduced the rest of his true-born siblings to her, and he knew Sansa was already smitten by the idea of a real princess as a goodsister, though his other siblings were a little more withdrawn; Bran’s attention being held by the armour-clad knights, Arya chafing at anything Southern, and Rickon being a mere babe.

“My uncle, Lord Renly Baratheon of Storm’s End, and Ser Loras Tyrell; my guardians for the journey. Ser Arys Oakheart, of the Kingsguard, and Ser Rolland Storm, and his squires Edric Storm and Gendry Waters, my sworn swords.” Robb was drawn from his thoughts as the Princess introduced her household. “My ladies-in-waiting, Jeyne Westerling and Allyria Dayne, and my handmaidens Bella Rivers, Mya Stone, and Falia Flowers.”

“It’s been some time, Lord Eddard.” Renly Baratheon, tall and with the same black curls as his niece, clasped wrists with the Warden of the North, and Robb’s father smiled quietly at the King’s youngest brother.

“You’ve grown.” His father said, and Lord Renly laughed.

“I’d hope so!”

“Princess Helaine,” Mother stepped forward, drawing the Princess’ attention to herself. “I would show you to your chambers.”

“Of course, Lady Stark.”

HELAINE I

Winterfell was truly stunning, a massive complex of gray stone and great towers; compared to the Red Keep, it may seem bland, but to Helaine Baratheon, it already felt like _home_. She could feel the ancient magic in the walls, flowing alongside the hot spring water piped through the granite, and listened to it hum under her fingers.

There’s a great strength in the stone, solid, it felt safe; not even the ever-present snow could make it feel cold, the enchantments woven into the masonry too powerful.

Old magic hung in the air like a blanket, protective and warm, thick like molasses – she could feel it in the wind tousling her hair, and the stone beneath her feet. It was the most magic she had felt in one place since her life as Harry Potter, even the dragon-magic of Dragonstone, blistering, powerful and unwelcoming, couldn’t compare.

Helaine loved it.

Her rooms were lovely and well-put together, obviously prepared for a princess in mind, though minimalist, and while the furs were nothing like the silks and satins of her childhood room, it was charming in its own way. Not as open or airy as King’s Landing, it brought memories of four-poster beds of crimson and gold and the laughter of children to the forefront of her mind.

(It reminded her of Hogwarts - of the first home she ever knew.)

“Your Highness?” Bella, with her thick curls as dark as her own and eyes a Baratheon stormy-blue, slipped into her chambers, changed out of her traveling clothing and into a more Northern-styled fur-lined dress. As her gaze roved over the Princess’ leggings and tunic, the girl’s lips pressed together in disapproval, “The Feast is starting soon, and you’re not even dressed yet?” Her older half-sister admonished, and Helaine smiled sheepishly at the Rivers as she was drawn from her inner thoughts.

“There’s just so much to see.” The thirteen-year-old said simply, and the base-born young woman rolled her eyes to the heavens, probably asking for patience to deal with her improper, Royal sister.

“Honestly.” The Peach-raised girl muttered, sweeping towards the wardrobe she had filled only hours before. “What’s more important than getting to know your future husband?” Helaine shrugged grinning, and Bella huffed, pulling a dress from her collection and laying it out on her new bed.

Helaine recognized it easily; white sateen with a tight bodice and high neck, lined with soft gray wool, and embroidered by Myrcella’s delicate hand with little glass beads in the shape of antlers branching where her collarbone would be. The ball gown skirt, when worn, would reach her ankles, and had a layer of black and yellow lace patterned on it.

She smiled as she ran a hand across the soft fabric, “Myrcella did a good job.” The young Princess murmured, and Bella nodded as she bustled towards her, rapidly tugging her tunic off so Helaine could step into the dress. As her sister’s nimble fingers made quick work of lacing the bodice, Helaine ran a brush through her hair to wrestle the unruly curls into some semblance of order.

“What do you think of Lord Robb?” Bella asked, plucking the brush from her hands so she could attack the coils herself. “He’s very handsome, though a little young for my taste.”

“He was born the same year you were.” Helaine returned, slightly amused as her handmaiden shrugged.

“Aye, but I prefer men who know what to do with their cock.” She stated with a barking laugh, snatching up a collection of pins and ribbons as she did battle. “That boy’s a maiden if I ever seen one. Wouldn’t know what to do if you showed him. Pretty though.”

“His eyes are very kind.” The Princess admitted, “He seems like a good man. I think I’ll be happy here.”

“That’s more than most women get.”

CATELYN I

The Princess was odd.

Catelyn wasn’t quite sure what she thought of Princess Helaine Baratheon; she was lovely and perfectly polite, but she was also not what Catelyn would have thought a princess would be. The girl had a household with more bastards than trueborn ladies, three handmaidens she introduced alongside her knights, three of which were bastards themselves, and ladies-in-waiting, as if they were equal. She rode alongside the men, instead of in her wheelhouse with the other Ladies, and didn’t bother restraining her emotions, she laughed and smiled openly and she couldn’t miss the keen intelligence in her Lannister eyes.

In a way, Catelyn saw herself in the Princess, she saw the young girl she was, the eldest child and Heir of Hoster Tully in the absence of a brother, sitting in lessons more suited for male Heirs and future Lords, something that would have lessened her marriage prospects if her Lord Father had shared the information. She had been more open then, fierce in a way that was more akin to Arya than Sansa, she had learned how to fight with her mind and with weapons, she learned trade and politics at her father’s knee - lessons required for a Lord - and she _flourished_.

But when Edmure had been born, Catelyn had put away her spear, locked away her cyvasse board, and turned to more womanly pursuits. She had hidden that side of her, in favour of being a proper Lady, but seeing Princess Helaine now, Catelyn couldn’t help but wonder at the _what ifs_.

Casting her eyes towards her daughters – beautiful, sweet Sansa more beautiful than Catelyn had ever been, and wild, uncontained Arya who refused to bend no matter the pressure – Catelyn couldn’t help but smile. Her daughters perfectly echoed the two sides of herself.

(Perhaps she would take over some of Sansa and Arya’s lessons.)

“Presenting Her Royal Highness, Princess Helaine, of House Baratheon.”

It was mere luck that had Catelyn casting her gaze towards her eldest as the young princess swept into the main hall, no longer dressed in travel-worn riding clothes and a ride’s worth of dust, and looking much more like a proper Lady to what had been seen in her before. Among the drab colours of the Northerners present, the yellow interspersed in the Princess’ mostly white dress was eye catching; and catch eyes it did, for Robb’s Tully-blue eyes latched onto the Baratheon Princess and barely wandered for the entire feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 Sneakpeek:  
Before her endured the Heart Tree; a primordial force, with bark as white as bleached bones dark red leaves, and a long and melancholy face carved into the trunk. Deep-cut eyes were red with dried sap, studying her as she stood before it, she could feel it’s magic whispering around her, prodding her, heavy and judging and very much alive.
> 
> Edited 2019-10-30


	2. JON I, HELAINE II, THE RAVEN I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is being put up a few days earlier than I planned, since I'm going away for a week and I don't know how much time I'll have to work on my stories.  
Have a happy and safe All Hallows Eve!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways, I'm considering a future Jon/Allyria pairing - I just think it would be funny if they named their son Arthur

_ **The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe** _

_ **The Princess and the Heir** _

JON I

Jon Snow hit the cobblestone with a grunt, sending a grey eyed glare up at the grinning face of Theon Greyjoy as the older boy, a young man now really, laughed at him and kicks the fallen sword out of the bastard’s reach.

“Come on, _bastard_!” The Greyjoy jeered, booted foot coming down on Jon’s hand. “You need to do better than that.”

“Theon,” Robb admonished, and the Squidling stepped off his hand with a swagger, grinning cockily as Jon gritted his teeth as he collected his blade from where it had landed.

“You’re too polished _Snow_,” Theon mocked, “Like a little Lordling, who do you think you are?”

“_Theon_!” His trueborn brother snapped, and Jon growled deep in the back of his throat as the Ironborn arse stood down.

“He’ll never survive in a _real_ fight if he thinks his opponent is going to fight honourably.” Theon scorned, and Jon scowled.

“Did a whore refuse your coin?” Jon snapped back, and Theon’s eyes flared angrily, grip tightening on his blade.

“No.” Another voice interrupted, and the three men turned to see Princess Helaine sweeping towards them, following behind her was the beautiful Lady Allyria Dayne whose violet eyes met the baseborn boy’s gray and she smiled at him. Jon blushed and averted his eyes as he dipped into a respectful bow at the sight of the two Ladies. Unlike her Dornish companion, who wore a simple Northern-styled dress in her House’s colours, the young Princess was dressed in tight trousers and riding boots, a man’s tunic reached her knees and slit at the sides to allow for ease of movement, and a sword sheathed at her waist. “Falia did.” Green eyes were as cold as winter as she stared at Theon.

“The Princess isn’t very pleased with him.” A quiet voice at his side murmured, and Jon startled out of his thoughts to see that Lady Allyria had moved to stand beside him and away from the sparring ring. Her dark hair fell loose out of her white furred hood in gentle waves, her violet dress hugged her relatively small chest in the way Northern tailors preferred, and the way the fabric seemed padded leant Jon to believe that there would more layers hidden underneath. “He was quite rude to Falia.”

Falia Flowers – one of the Princess’ handmaidens. A buxom strawberry blond of six and ten, pretty, with freckled skin and big brown eyes - she also had a way of dressing that left little to the imagination and turned heads. She enjoyed it, reveled in the attention her beauty gained her, all sultry smiles and fluttering lashes. Jon could admit that he had looked, and he thought her beautiful, but he didn’t find himself wanting to fall for her the same way he had seen other men do.

“He’s rude to a _lot_ of people.” Jon found himself admitting, and Allyria giggled in response.

“She did not appreciate your advances.” The Princess stated coolly, drawing the attention of her lady-in-waiting and the bastard of Winterfell back to her. “Don’t get me wrong, she enjoys a little bit of fun now and again, and I’m not going to deny her that, but she _didn’t_ like your insinuations, or the way you grabbed her.”

Theon was cringing now, and Jon didn’t blame him; one letter to her father, and the Greyjoy could loose his head if she wanted it.

“Your Highness,” Robb was pale as she drew her sword, and the Princess casted a look towards her betrothed.

“I won’t have him killed, Lord Robb.” She assured him, “Just a friendly sparring session.” The way she said _friendly_ didn’t give Jon much hope for Theon’s future, and by the look on his face, it didn’t comfort Robb either. “He’s an immature boy; Falia and Bella have both dealt with men like him before, those who don’t respect them and think that they can use their stations to force them into things. I find a couple bashes to the head usually clears that right up.” Robb stood down, and green eyes swung back towards Theon, “Draw your sword, Theon Greyjoy, and fight me like you mean it; I won’t have you punished for agreeing to a spar.” There was a moments hesitation, before Theon dipped his head and drew his sword, and Princess Helaine lunged.

It ended quite quickly, with Theon - taken by surprise at the princess’ fierce movements - on the ground and Princess Helaine’s sword level with his throat; she was quick and nimble, seeming to use her smaller size and the element of surprise to her advantage, making Theon seem slow and clumsy in comparison as she twisted and turned around his strikes, redirecting his blade with little flicks of her own. Her final move, a quick twirl of her sword, had the Greyjoy’s weapon falling to the ground, and a shoulder to the chest saw Theon following.

The courtyard was dumbfounded, then slow, purposeful clapping began, rising above the silence, and all eyes turned to see Lord Stark watching them from his balcony.

"Next time, be a little more polite when speaking to a woman. No matter her station." The Princess stepped back, sheathing her sword once more, and, after a moments consideration, she offered Theon a hand up. “Well fought, Lord Theon.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Blinking, a slight blush now on his cheeks, Theon dipped his head respectfully, “I’ve never seen fighting like that.”

“It’s a hybrid style.” She told him easily, “A mixture of Water Dance, Stormlander, and Westerlands techniques.”

“It’s _impressive_.” Theon complemented her, and the Princess laughed.

“Thank you.”

As they spoke, Jon’s gaze moved from the Greyjoy and Princess, to his brother; Robb stood silently, looking like _he_ had been the one hit in the head and knocked on his arse, blue eyes wide and mouth parted in shock. He also seemed the slightest bit _jealous_, Jon discovered, to his surprise.

“Would you like to train with us?” Robb blurted, then flushed as the Princess’ attention moved to him, with a large smile growing on her face. “You’re _really_ good, and learning some Northern techniques could never hurt.”

It looked like Robb’s worries about a wilting Southern bride were unfounded.

HELAINE II

The magic of the Godswood drew her in.

Almost trance-like in the moonlight, Helaine swept through the steam rising off of the hot springs and shed red leaves scattered through the humus like blood. There was something wild and uncontained about the white trunks and crimson leaves, it was dark and primal, and the feeling of being watched followed every step.

She took a deep breath, surrounded as she was by carved faces and ancient memories, she enjoyed the powerful magic seeping through the soles of her bare feet and ruffling her sleeping shift like a teasing wind.

Before her endured the Heart Tree; a primordial force, with bark as white as bleached bones dark red leaves, and a long and melancholy face carved into the trunk. Deep-cut eyes were red with dried sap, studying her as she stood before it, she could feel it’s magic whispering around her, prodding her, heavy and judging and very much alive.

Helaine let her own magic sink into the earth and air, allowing the spirit of the heart tree to consider her, and the heavy atmosphere lifted slightly, accepting her amongst the ghosts of the weirwood.

Stepping forward, a slow sigh of air leaving her, the young princess raised a hand, tracing her fingers across the smooth bark, before pressing her hand flat against it. Magic, ancient and unrestrained, rushed through her veins, channeling through her body and exiting through her feet to spread through the earth, a strong breeze rustling the leaves around her, the sound of the trees moving around her stronger than ever before, drowning out everything else.

It felt like a lifetime before she pulled her hand away as if in a dream, the music of magic from bygone ages crooned like bells to her ears, the whispering voices grew stronger as they lead her back out of the woods.

It was hypnotic, and Helaine walked, unaware of the flowers blooming under her feet.

THE RAVEN I

Deep in the forests of ever winter and one with the weirwood, a being stirred as magic swirled around him and through the roots of the tree he called home. The feeling of fresh air and storms fills his limbs, and before his eyes, little crimson bulbs push through the snow, growing rapidly into flowering blossoms in what should have been inhospitable ground to such a delicate beauty.

Amazed, one bony hand reaches forward, shaking hands gently caressing silky petals, and the man-who-was-no-longer-just-a-man released a rattling laugh.

For all his eyes, all his years and visions, he had never seen something of this magnitude happening.

Magic was returning to Westeros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 Sneekpeak:  
Bran is flying.  
Soaring through the night sky on the wings of a white owl, his eyes, sharper than ever before with perfect clarity, observing the snow falling gently among the Godswood, sparkling like the little glass beads Sansa would sew into her dresses.


	3. BRAN I, HELAINE III, RENLY I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disaster has stuck, my laptop needs to go to the doctor, had a bit of a stroke before I could finish chapter 4 so I don't know how quickly I'll be able to get the next chapters out - I'm posting this one now to tell you that I am continuing my stories, I'm just not sure how long it'll take to fix my computer D:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbeta'd, so if you see a mistake, could you give me the sentence and I'll get it fixed up as quickly as I can! :)

_ **The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe** _

_ **The Princess and the Heir** _

BRAN I

Bran is flying.

Soaring through the night sky on the wings of a white owl, his eyes, sharper than ever before with perfect clarity, observing the snow falling gently among the Godswood, sparkling like the little glass beads Sansa would sew into her dresses.

The owl that is Bran hoots as he lands on a branch of red leaves, the noise startling against the rustling of wind in the trees, and the murmur of voices rising from beneath the Heart Tree.

“Why am I here?” A female voice asks, familiar and soft, but Bran can’t quite place who it is.

In response, a man speaks, his voice one of thousands, tired and ancient, but young and echoing all at once. “Because it calls to you – because _I_ call you.”

“But I _am_ you.”

A chuckle, fond in the way Old Nan is when Bran asks her about her stories, “Yes, and no.” He tells her, “You are your own person, with a sliver of who I was within your own being. Just one avatar among us all. You are _you_ – don’t let who _I_ am hold _you_ back.”

There’s silence for a moment, before she speaks again, voice small and frightened. “Why am I _here_?”

“Because you’re needed.” He replies simply, “Now it’s time you wake.”

The wind picks up, leaves rustling loudly, and Bran knows that she’s gone, leaving the man alone among the roots of the Godswood.

“Come on down now.” He says, and the owl Bran is takes flight, drifting from the white wood to land on the outstretched arm of the stranger. Gentle fingers card through his feathers, and the owl coos. The man smiles, green-green eyes fond and soft as he does so, “Hullo Hedwig.” He greets, then bright eyes sharpen, staring through the owl and into _Bran_. “As for you, you should _wake up_.”-

-And Bran awakens, no longer an owl but a boy, sweat of his brow and the memory of too-bright eyes seared into his mind, a laugh echoing in his ears, and a whisper on the wind.

_“It’s rude to spy.”_

HELAINE III

_Something had changed_, Helaine could feel it in the chill of the Northern air.

Looking out over the courtyard from her room’s windows, snow falling in gentle white sheets in the dim light peeking out from the gray clouds, Winterfell was still monochrome in colouring, but there was something _new_ coursing through the ancient stonework that made the keep almost glow. Smiling as the clouds continued to part, allowing the light to catch on the ice crystals, shimmering and shining, the princess leaned forwards, gently pushing the window open to allow the brisk Northern air to nip at her nose and cheeks.

She absently acknowledged the knock at the door, eyes locked on the twinkling blanket of snow outside her window, enjoying the cold air dancing through her hair.

“Your Highness?” Jeyne Westerling called into the rooms as she slipped through the doors, and Helaine finally tore her eyes away from the courtyard of Winterfell to look at her brown haired lady-in-waiting.

“Good morning, Jeyne.” The green eyed princess greeted, smile turning playful. “What brings you all the way up here to little old me?”

The older girl muffled her unladylike snort, brown eyes shining in the faintly amused yet disapproving way that brought back foggy memories of a life once lived, of a bookworm with hair more frazzled than her personality – but the expression was gone quickly, hidden away under the mask of a dutiful daughter and Lady.

Helaine's own playful grin melted away into something more serious, more distant, and acceptably Princess-like. Jeyne was not her friend - _she wasn’t Hermione_ \- her lady-in-waiting was with her on orders from her Grandfather Tywin; she had known from the beginning that Jeyne had been assigned to her to report back to the Lord Lannister and the Queen. She was a Princess, and that meant the noble Houses always wanted something from her, were always watching her, judging her.

Despite what the Faith of the Seven taught, it was bastards that Helaine could trust; the children deemed sinful for the circumstances of their birth, ignored and distrusted, they were the ones Helaine could surround herself with.

“What can I do for you, Jeyne?”

The young Lady dipped into a curtsey, “Lord Robb has invited you to join him for a ride, Princess.”

Helaine blinked, pushing herself away from her windows, latching it shut as she did so, before she smiled once more, moving to her wardrobe to pull out her riding clothes. “That sounds lovely, please tell Lord Robb that I’ll join him momentarily.”

RENLY I

Leaning against the stone walls of Winterfell, Renly Baratheon watched his niece ride through the gates, dark hair blowing in the wind as she laughed freely, sharing banter with Ser Ronnel and even the dour Jon Snow, seemingly unaware of the smitten stare Robb Stark was aiming at her back.

That lad was definitely enamoured with the young princess, and Renly couldn’t say he blamed him; Helaine was a lovely girl, rumoured amongst the men of the Stormlands as the beautiful Elenei come again, a proper Storm Queen, born of sea and wind, with a personality she refused to allow changed. She had the Baratheon stubbornness in droves, and a trueness about her in the way she lived fiercely.

The people of Kings Landing, the ones who had no lost love for Robert, adored her, quite a few worshipped her for her kindness and giving nature, they saw her as Alysanne the Good in a Baratheon body, however they seemed to forget that she wasn’t a perfect princess, or a perfect lady. They didn't want to see her as anything but.

_(She was more a Daena the Defiant anyways.)_

But in the North?

In the North she had nothing pulling her back; it was a harsh country, and the people had to be harsher, no matter man or woman.

Cersei had been a very distant mother, and had chosen to push her firstborn daughter away instead of embrace the young girl’s differences when she had refused to twist herself to the vile woman’s views. She had been smothered in the South, traditions, Cersei, and courtly ways constantly trying to put out the fire that burned in her heart, trying to bend her into what they thought she should be, and ignoring who she was. With a mother who kept her distance, and a father who tended to forget that he had children, it was no wonder the sweet little girl had always smiled brightly despite her missing teeth and muddy knees at the mere sight of Renly or even serious Stannis’ arrival in the capital.

It was that smile that brought Renly back more than any order from his kingly arse of a brother ever did.

“Lord Baratheon?”

“Lady Stark,” Renly turned to offer his niece’s future goodmother a gallant bow and a kiss to her knuckles. “What brings you to me?”

The Lady of Winterfell smiled politely, carefully folding her hands in front of her as she regarded him with the Tully-blue eyes she shared with all but one of her children. “I wish to ask your opinion of Her Highness, as her uncle and family.”

The Lord of Storm’s End straightened, “Ask away, my Lady.”

“Thank you.” Lady Catelyn replied, “If I may, what kind of person is the Princess?”

“Don’t want to trust gossip?” Renly chuckled, and Lady Catelyn smiled faintly as the Lord collected fond memories. “Helaine was a wilful child, a lot like that little Arya of yours, always underfoot." He shared, and could see the surprise on her face. "She had Stannis and I wrapped around her little finger since birth – probably because she looked like our grandmother for the first year of her life.” Renly smiled at the memory; poor little Helaine who was always happy to just be _held_, to be _seen_, and despite only being seven or eight name days old himself, Renly had adored the little babe with her silver-gold curls, slowly greening eyes, and bright laughs.

It was in that moment that Renly had become his niece’s unofficial sworn sword.

“She was also a smart little thing, managed to wrangle plenty of treats out of the servants without ever expressed asking for them. Her favourite were these little golden syrup tarts that she’d weasel out of the Westerlander maids.” He told the Lady, “She was mischievous – I’m quite sure it was her who snuck a snake into the Kingslayer’s bed – _completely harmless_, just a garden snake.” He assured her at her quietly horrified stare. “As it is, no one can prove it was her.” He chortled, then moved onto more soothing topics. “But, she’s also the little girl who’s nameday request since her sixth, was to see the children of King’s Landing provided food and a pouch of coin. She went to the square once a week to read to the smallfolk, and even provided employment to anyone she could find who was suffering. The people love her.” Renly finished proudly, and the Lady smiled softly.

“I also wish to ask,” Lady Catelyn said quietly, blue eyes moving towards where the small group of riders had just moved from sight, “If, in your opinion, Robb and Princess Helaine will be happy together?”

Renly softened; here was a worried mother, thinking of her firstborn’s happiness in his future marriage. “No pair is perfect; they _will_ face challenges.” The Baratheon Lord told her, thinking back to the young Stark Heir’s soft looks and infatuated gaze, and Helaine’s bright laughter and free smile. “But I believe that they will find happiness in this arrangement.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 Sneekpeak:  
There’s a spectre of a woman before him, pale and washed out, wearing a red-stained white gown, staring at him from the stairs with wide fathomless gray eyes, so much like his own. Her dark hair flows around her, blending with the shadows that seem to grow deeper with every heartbeat, and she reaches towards him-


	4. ROBB II, JON II, HELAINE IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which shit starts hitting the fan
> 
> (Guess who's laptop is back from the doctors!)

_ **The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe** _

_ **The Princess and the Heir** _

ROBB II

Robb hadn’t fallen asleep when he was jolted by the faint knocking on his door; his mind was on that morning, on riding through the Wolfswood with his betrothed, Jon and Ser Rolland watching as their chaperones, listening to the princess’ bright laughter over the crunching snow under their horses’ hooves.

The veil of peaceful silence Robb had been laying under was shattered, however, with the quick, stuttering knock on the door to his chambers, and the auburn haired Heir stirs half-heartedly. He considered ignoring it when his half-brother’s voice filtered through the ancient wood.

“Robb! I know you’re awake!” Jon hisses, and Robb pushes himself from his bed and stuffed his feet into his boots on his way to meet his barely-younger-brother.

The door barely creaking as it opened, well-maintained despite it’s age, and Robb met Jon’s dark eyes.

“It’s late, Jon, what do you want?” Robb grumbles, and was met by a mischievous smile from his normally solemn brother. The older of the two squawks like an offended bird, surprised, as a thick cloak was thrown at him, leaving him cursing as he fought his way out of the fabric.

“Sorry, Stark,” He _didn’t_ sound sorry, “I’m just following orders.” Jon’s voice sounded like he was laughing – _definitely laughing_, Robb noted as he finally pulled the cloak from his head, shoulders shaking in silent amusement at his brother’s plight. “Put on the cloak – Helaine heard the rumours about dragon eggs in Winterfell and she wants to go looking for them.”

Robb didn’t fight as his brother’s hand clamps around his wrist, and he starts tugging him down the hall, the way they had once done as lads, his mind caught on Jon’s words. “The Princess lets you call her Helaine?”

Jon, usually so deferential and polite, shrugs absently, “She doesn’t really like titles.” He informs him, “It would make her happy if you called her by her name.” Robb flushes, averting his eyes from Jon’s knowing gaze.

He changes the subject; “What’s the story about dragon eggs?”

“You need to pay more attention to Old Nan’s stories.” Jon accuses, and rolls his eyes at Robb’s pointed look. “When Queen Alysanne landed her dragon in Winterfell, it’s said that Silverwing laid a clutch of eggs under the crypts of the Kings of Winter. There’s another story of Vermax, the dragon flown by Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, leaving a clutch behind in the crypts when he flew North to treatise with Lord Cregan Stark, that’s spread by the smallfolk in Wintertown.”

“And why are _you_ so excited?” Robb asks and looking at the pink crawling across his brother's pale skin, it dawns on him. “Lady Allyria is with the Princess.” Allyria Dayne was three years older than the brothers, with the salty Dornish looks, sleek black curls, and bright violet eyes; tall and graceful, Robb wasn’t surprised that it was the Dayne that caught his brother’s gaze, but it worried him. Jon was his _brother_, only a few months younger than him – he couldn’t remember a time when Jon _wasn’t_ there, and he loved him for it, but in the end, Jon was a bastard, and Allyria Dayne was a lady of a noble House, there was no hope for a relationship between them, and Jon was too honourable to seek one.

“Jon -”

“I know.”

JON II

They met Princess Helaine and Lady Allyria in the shadows of the First Keep, both young ladies dressed warmly in thick furred cloaks, tunics, and trousers as they kept out of the wandering guards’ eyes. The Baratheon princess’ grin was bright when she saw them approaching, as opposed to Lady Allyria’s calm smile, and she waved them over.

Spring green eyes swung towards Jon’s brother, who had been silent through their trip from his chambers, as she asked – “Ready for an adventure?” Her voice is hushed, but excited, as she lifts her lantern to cast the candle’s golden glow across her face and turns towards the ironwood door that separated the four young adventures from the crypts beneath Winterfell.

Jon shares another glance with his brother as the heavy door swung open, allowing the chilly air trapped under the keep to rush outwards and around them, ruffling their hair and teasing the fur of their cloaks. It made him shiver; not the cold, but the eeriness of the all consuming darkness and the thin spiralling staircase that leads into the unknown, beckoning them onward.

_Calling to him…_

_‘I don’t want to die…’_

_‘Promise me- ‘_

_‘His name is- ‘_

_There was a spectre of a woman before him, pale and washed out, wearing a red-stained white gown, staring at him from the stairs with wide fathomless gray eyes, so much like his own. Her dark hair flowed around her, blending with the shadows that seem to grow deeper with every heartbeat, and she reached towards him-_

_‘My son…’_

-A slim hand touches his elbow, jolting him from the quiet whispers on the wind. “Jon?” Lady Allyria asks worriedly, as she peers up at him with thick-lashed violet eyes, “Are you alright?”

Gray eyes flickered back towards the shadows, but the vision was gone, and Jon shook himself. “I’m alright, My Lady.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Robb teases, but Jon could see the worry in his brother’s blue eyes as he stared at him from the princess’ side. Princess Helaine herself is staring at him, watchful, calculating, but the almost inhuman look in her eyes made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but the look was gone as soon as Jon shivers again.

HELAINE IV

The ghost of the young and beautiful Lyanna Stark follows them into the crypts of Winterfell, but Helaine’s attention isn’t held by the woman her father still lusts for, even after fifteen years in the grave – no, it was held by Jon Snow, who’s face is still paler than usual, his eyes nervous as they move from shadow to shadow, looking for _something_.

_Someone_.

He _had_ seen her.

Helaine had never seen ghosts before coming to Winterfell, but she had been able to sense their presence – in King’s Landing, the sheer amount of lingering, suffering spirits who had died terrible deaths had left her shaken and ill on the best of days, and sometimes even bed ridden as she heard the echoes of their _screams_ in her mind.

But Lyanna Stark was the first ghost she had truly seen; the strength of lingering regrets powerful enough for her to show herself to someone not connected to Death for even just a _heartbeat_ – that was shocking.

The implications that left her with, even more so.

The only ‘stain’ on Eddard Stark’s reputable honour was known to Helaine, as it often brought a laugh to her royal father, who was certain that the one who had convinced his Foster brother to forsake his honour long enough to father a bastard was him, his ribbing and teasing finally having paid off.

After all, the principled and _honest_ Ned Stark, who openly claimed his bastard son, raised him among his trueborn, would never _lie_ about something as important as his honour.

Not unless he was protecting something even more _important_.

_His sister’s child_.

The son of Rhaegar Targaryen.

A boy her father would see dead, sorely because of the blood that flows through his veins; _dragonspawn_ – the word Robert Baratheon had spat with such hatred whenever reminded of the Targaryen dynasty, even in reference of the innocent babes murdered by her grandfather’s monsters – a word he would call Jon before ordering his death, probably even the deaths of House Stark for harbouring him for all these years.

_Jaehaerys Targaryen _\- Lyanna had called him, her voice longing and sad - the Third of His Name, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms – a dragon hidden in plain sight by a pack of wolves. The Protector of the Realm protected by the name Jon Snow and the silence of an uncle, a _father_, who didn’t want to loose anymore family.

Protected by the silence of a princess whose throne was won with the blood of his siblings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneakpeek for chapter 5:  
Exploring the Crypts of Winterfell was supposed to be a bonding experience, a way to help Robb grow closer to his betrothed, to help him get over his nervousness around the princess by letting him see her as just another person, a young lady who loved adventure just as much as he did.


	5. EDDARD I, JON III, HELAINE V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the secret comes out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BA-BAM! Last chapter of The Princess and the Heir, the next story, The Pack Survives, will be coming soon so keep an eye out! I posted this so soon after chapter 4 because I've been on a massive roll since I got my laptop back the other day, and was getting too jittery.

_ **The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe** _

_ **The Princess and the Heir** _

EDDARD I

It’s the rapid pounding on his door that forces Ned from his sleep, startling in the bed he shares with Cat as he throws off his sheets before his thoughts catch up with him, and he’s striding towards the ancient oaken doors that separate the lord’s chambers from the rest of his keep.

Robb is standing on the other side, looking ruffled and nervous and just a little frightened, face pale and freckles standing out stark in contrast. Ignoring the befuddled stares of the guards, and instead staring at his father with wide eyes, Robb breaths like he’s run across Winterfell without a moment of rest.

“Robb?” The lord asks, casting his gaze around the corridor for a threat, “What’s wrong?”

His eldest son looks nervously at the guards, before bustling into the room and closing the door.

Ned shares a look with his wife as she finishes tying her robe.

“Robb?” Cat tries, moving to their son and placing a hand against his pale cheek, “What happened, sweetling?”

“Father,” Urgently, Robb gently removes his mother’s palm to move his attention to Ned, “There’s something you _need_ to see. _Only_ you.”

JON III

The silver creature squeaks, shuffling around him and snuffling, talons scratching across the ancient cobble stone as it pulls itself away from the remains of its egg.

Exploring the Crypts of Winterfell was supposed to be a bonding experience, a way to help Robb grow closer to his betrothed, to help him get over his nervousness around the princess by letting him see her as just another person, a young lady who loved adventure just as much as he did. Finding the hidden vault behind the tomb of Lord Cregan Stark had not been part of the plan, but something had called to them, led them to the unlit sconce sequestered behind the grim visage of their ancestor, and pushed Jon to twist the ancient metal.

The clanging of a lifting lock had been a surprise, and Jon doesn’t know what had come over him to make him decide to drag the hidden door open.

And now they were sitting in stunned silence, surrounded by piles of treasures, with two freshly hatched dragons exploring the world they had been born into.

“_Dragons_.” Allyria whispers in awe, and it’s the expression on her face that suddenly reminds Jon that the Daynes were Targaryen loyalists, and had surprised the kingdom when the young Allyria Dayne had been chosen to be the lady-in-waiting of a Baratheon Princess.

Princess Helaine Baratheon – who has _Targaryen_ ancestors, one as close as a great-grandmother, who is descended from Orys Baratheon, rumoured to have been the bastard brother of Aegon the Conqueror – who is staring at the red and gold wyrmling that has decided to move towards her, little talons catching in her cloak as the hatchling tries to pull itself onto her lap.

And yet –

Jon – who is a _Stark_, a descendant of the First Men _not_ the Valyrian dragon riders – moves his attention once more to the pale silver hatchling, crystalline eyes having landed on his still form; the dragon is small, barely the size of a young cat, and much too delicate and breakable to be the monstrous creatures of legend surely, with scales such a shade of silver that they look like the whiteness of freshly fallen snow. The little black horns contrast against the paleness of the dragon’s scales, and the thin membrane of leather wings are even paler. The colour of it’s eyes are hard to determine, silvery, with swirls of pale lavenders and blues that move and clash like the sea as it stares up at him, and Jon –

Jon reaches towards it, mind foggy and yet the world around him in perfect clarity, and the dragon’s long neck stretches to meet him, the dragon’s muzzle pressing against his palm and –

Jon yelps as sharp, searing pain burns through the skin, and he pulls his hand away, cradling it to his chest. Looking at the reddened palm, Jon’s eyes trace the swirling silver of the strange mark that has been burned into his hand as the heat fades, to be replaced with a cold tingling.

“_What-_”

Alarm and curiosity battle in his mind, but they’re emotions not his own, feeling more detached and distant than his own, and Jon looks up to meet the dragon’s gaze as her head tilts, a new gleam of keen intelligence and child-like innocence in her colourful eyes.

“My gods.”

The horrified whisper reaches his ears, and Jon’s head snaps up, wide eyes meeting his father’s panicked stare.

HELAINE V

Helaine gently gathers her newly hatched familiar into her arms, the red and gold wyrmling curling into her warmth as his small head presses against her neck, his mind radiating comfort and a sense of belonging in a way she can vaguely remember from Harry’s connection to his beloved Hedwig, though clearer, not muffled by the Horcrux that had once blocked the wizard’s connection to a large portion of his magic.

Her attention, however, is held by the arrival of Lord Stark as her future goodfather stares at them, pale and terrified at the sight of the dragons – _Jon’s_ dragon to be exact – and Helaine can’t really blame him; nearly two decades worth of lies spun to protect his sister’s child ruined by the hatching of a single dragon.

It probably doesn’t help that said hatching had been witnessed by others.

“_Father_?” Sounding lost, Jon stares back, gray eyes wide against his pale face. “What’s going on?”

Helaine can see Allyria stiffen as Lord Stark begins moving towards Jon, can see the pieces fit together in her friend’s mind as she looks from Jon, to his new familiar, and back to Eddard as she comes to the realization of _who_ Jon is – and before Helaine can call out to her, the Dayne steps between the Lord of Winterfell and the Prince, dagger pulled from her skirts and held protectively in front of her.

“Allyria!” Helaine yelps, “He’s not a threat!”

Allyria hesitates, violet eyes flashing defensively, as she whispers; “_The Tower of Joy_. I always knew _someone_ was lying – my brother _never_ would have allowed Rhaegar to do what _they_ said he did. Arthur was a _good_ man, an _honourable_ one; he may have loved Rhaegar, but he wouldn’t have let him kidnap or rape a woman, let alone help him.” Lord Stark’s gray eyes meet the Dayne’s purple, and he dips his head in a nod, making Allyria release a shaky gasp of air.

“What do you mean?” Robb, wide eyed and looking ill, asks, but Helaine can see the muted realization in the Stark’s blue eyes, a realization only held back by years of lies being built like a protective wall around the Stark family.

“I never wanted you to find out this way,” Lord Stark says to the room, but his eyes are gazing over Allyria’s shoulder and on Jon. “Jon… I should have told you years ago – I was scared of how you would react -” He lets out a sigh, shoulders curling forward under the weight of a lifetime of lies. “You are my blood, but you aren’t my son, no matter how much I wish you were. Your mother was my sister, Lyanna Stark; you are a trueborn son of House Targaryen. On her deathbed, she named you Jaehaerys Targaryen, and begged me to keep you safe.”

Helaine speaks next, voice quiet; “You’re the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

And as the lies shatter, so does Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneak peek for The Pack Survives:  
Months ago, Jon Snow – Jaehaerys Targaryen – had helped rediscover the hidden vault of Cregan Stark, but it hadn’t been the treasures that had captured Jon’s attention – that honour had fallen to the collection of dragon eggs.  
And with the hatching of his dragon, Jon had learned the truth.
> 
> As the wedding of Helaine Baratheon and Robb Stark grows closer, the pack grows in strength.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my beta reader, emijane!


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